


Roses & Mirrors

by silent_scythe_47



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, maybe smut? idk, probably wont be any smut bc I don't write smut but we'll see ig, watch me disappear after 2 updates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-01-26
Packaged: 2021-03-13 15:21:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28530621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silent_scythe_47/pseuds/silent_scythe_47
Summary: "She liked to think of herself as a shattered mirror, one whose surface casted a distorted and haunting reflection of her too-skinny bones, sunken cheeks, and bruised-looking eye bags. The pieces of this mirror lay scattered, each accompanied with a tale she was too lazy and too afraid to pick back up. What use would it be if she did indeed collect the shards? They would simply slip from her cold, trembling fingers, back onto the ground, perhaps splintering into more fragments, which was just more for her to pick up."
Relationships: Nesta Archeron & Cassian, Nesta Archeron/Cassian
Comments: 6
Kudos: 24





	1. Chapter I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: mild cursing, self hate, alcohol abuse

_ “Il la voit partout _

_ Il l'attend debout” _

༺༻

“Have you finished packing?” 

Nesta Archeron turned to glare at the male at her doorway, her spine rigid and her fists clenched. She wore a simple, thin nightgown, a grayish-beige one that went down to her knees.

“Pack?” she spat, as if the word was the most poisonous thing in the world, second only to his cursed name. 

“The-” he started.

“The gray, drab clothes you dislike?” she finished for him. “The alcohol your High Lady forbade me from drinking?”

Cassian lowered his head ever so slightly, looking towards the left. A few strands of wind-kissed hair fell forwards, framing his face. His eyes fluttered with barely restrained exasperation, and Nesta inwardly berated herself for taking note of his long eyelashes. 

“You know there’s more than that,” he said at last, looking up to meet her gaze. “And if you forget something, we won’t be able to come back to Velaris to get it.”

Nesta sneered derisively. As if she possessed anything of value, as if her slanted and damp apartment was  _ actually _ worth anything. There was nothing here save for empty whiskey bottles, a crooked and unmade bed, an unused bathtub, and whatever other things were required to be in the most basic apartment possible. And in the air was the scent of a Fae male from last night that she was sure Cassian could smell, from the cross expression he had given when he arrived. Nesta was not sorry in the slightest.

She liked to think of herself as a shattered mirror, one whose surface casted a distorted and haunting reflection of her too-skinny bones, sunken cheeks, and bruised-looking eye bags. The pieces of this mirror lay scattered, each accompanied with a tale she was too lazy and too afraid to pick back up. What use would it be if she did indeed collect the shards? They would simply slip from her cold, trembling fingers, back onto the ground, perhaps splintering into more fragments, which was just more for her to pick up. Either way, the mirror was destroyed. Put it back together and you’d still see the cracks. 

Death and darkness did her bidding, yet she found herself to be nothing but glass; broken yet sharp, the metaphor disgustingly ironic. 

She took two steps forward, towards the Illyrian, and from his reaction- which was hidden, although she had a knack for assessing emotions that seemed ever present, even when she was only half sober- she surmised that he had not expected her to respond. 

“I won’t forget anything,” she replied, “because I have nothing to forget.”

Her lips curled back into a cruel smile as she raised her right hand, holding a small purse made of snakeskin. She gave it one shake, and the coins’ clinking noise could be heard. “Unless you count your High Lady’s charity.”

༺༻

Nesta heard the chirp of a bird and she looked up, eyes leaving the pages of her book. 

She watched as the bird flew higher and higher, until she could no longer see it, then turned her gaze to the ground. 

The sunset reflected onto the fresh snow outside Cassian’s cabin, illuminating it with blindingly white light, stark against the backdrop of jagged mountains that stood proudly, reaching towards the sky.

_ Illyria is beautiful, _ Nesta thought.  _ At least, Illyrian nature is. _

Nesta was no fool. She might’ve thought winter was pretty, but she knew precisely how harsh it was for the less-privileged Illyrians, especially unfortunate children and females. On their flight here, Cassian had explained just the basics, but Nesta felt as if she were a hellcat, bristling and snapping when he mentioned the backwards treatment of the females. 

They were supposed to land in Windhaven. The name rang a bell in her head, and she realized it was the camp led by Devlon, who she remembered as little more than a pathetic asshole. 

“Windhaven, like most other Illyrian camps, have banned wing clipping, but discrimination against females is still unfortunately existent,” he had said carefully, his tone soft, as if she were a young doe in the woods. There was true sorrow and anger on his face. She knew Cassian was proud to be Illyrian, proud of Illyrian culture, although clearly he didn’t condone this part in the slightest. 

Nesta remained silent, waiting for him to continue. 

“Wing clipping was outlawed by Rhys centuries ago, although in some rural camps, it’s still done.”

Nesta didn’t bother to ask for an explanation as to what wing clipping was; she could infer enough from the term itself. 

“The war has caused a lot of unrest. We’ve worked against the misogyny in the camps, but the discrimination is rooted deeply. It is not present in true Illyrian culture whatsoever, but the sexism has been here for so long that few accept any other ideology. Not only that, many families are angered at the way they are treated by the Night Court and the fact that so many died in the war.”

He seemed hesitant to go on, and Nesta narrowed her eyes, despite the fact that she wasn’t looking at his face. She waited expectantly for him to explain, although he seemed to refrain from giving any further explanation. 

“There is a lot of civil unrest in Illyria right now. Be careful,” was all he ended up saying.

The rest of their flight was spent in silence, Cassian focused on flying and Nesta ignoring the warmth and comfort she felt in his embrace. 

Now, as she watched the sun succumb to night’s darkness, sinking behind the mountains, she shivered. The house was insulated enough, but it was only the beginning of winter, and she was well aware that the winter nights of Illyria were not cozy in the slightest.

She hated to admit it, but she did miss Cassian’s warmth, even if she wanted nothing more than to strangle that bastard and run away from this place until she was as far from here as possible.

Nesta frowned at her conflicting emotions, closing her book shut with a snap. She had gone nearly twenty hours without alcohol, and she was not used to her feelings being so prominent, preferring the numb fuzziness of inebriation. 

Cassian being a living heater was not an option. Fire was not an option, and asking for anything was definitely not an option either. That left her with only one choice, which would be to suffer in silence. 

The cabin was different from her predictions. She had expected either a small and broken house, similar to her apartment, or something obnoxiously grand like the House of Wind. It was neither.

The cabin was made from some sort of sturdy wood, varying in shades of brown, some dark and some lighter. Nesta had begrudgingly come to the conclusion that she liked the cabin itself despite its owner and occupants. The house had many rooms, some of which Nesta had yet to explore. There was a dining room, kitchen, living room, and bathroom near the entrance. Near the back of the house was a hallway, with bedrooms, more bathrooms, a study, and some other rooms that she didn’t yet know the purpose of. The single-floored cabin was designed in such a way that all the bedrooms were in the middle of the house, surrounded by other rooms. 

Immediately after arriving in the cabin, Cassian had unpacked and went to go buy some supplies, which was abnormally vague, but Nesta didn’t question him further lest she presented herself as actually caring about that bastard. Nesta stayed in the study for nearly an hour; in it was a desk with a few papers, which she assumed were Cassian’s, and besides that, it was shelves upon shelves of books. There were way more than she expected, for she swore the cabin looked tiny from the outside. Most of the books were ancient tomes of war strategy, which Nesta regarded with a snort, but she did find a section of fiction. And after some time, she managed to find two books she was somewhat interested in.

She had headed straight to her bedroom. It was simple and undecorated, connected to a bathroom, and had a bed and two nightstands both with lamps. The closet and drawers remained empty. She left the little snakeskin pouch on the left nightstand, close to the door, and her books on the right side of the bed. She really didn’t like the novels all that much, but she had nothing to do in this cursed place. 

After absentmindedly recalling earlier events, she yawned and returned to the present for a few fleeting minutes, moving to put her book back onto the nightstand before withdrawing inside herself and staring at the wall until all the damned light in her room leached out of the window, the dying light turning the shadows into dancing ghosts.

Minutes- or maybe hours, for she did not care to keep track of time- later, she heard the creak of a door and a few thumps; most likely Cassian dropping things onto the kitchen counter or the floor.

“Nesta?” came his voice, drifting up the stairs. “Nesta, I’m home,” he called. 

She did not deign to offer him a reply. In fact, nothing about her posture remotely indicated that she heard anything. 

Footsteps sounded, and sooner than she liked, they drew closer until they stopped before her door. “Nesta, I know you’re in there,” he said softly, his voice a low rumble. “I know you don’t want to talk to me, and I know you’re frustrated with the situation.” 

_ Oh, frustrated, how interesting, _ she inwardly sneered.  _ Frustrated, what a simple term to describe me. As if I chose to be in Illyria. _

“I’m not going to make you talk to me all day, but- could you at least come out every day to eat dinner?”

Nesta continued to stare at the wall. “No.”

“Nesta-”

“I said no. Unless you would like to further intrude in my life and invalidate my decisions?”

She could hear Cassian’s sigh from behind the door. “Fine, we can compromise. Eat in the kitchen just for today so that we can talk.”

“Just for today,” Nesta responded, voice clipped. “Don’t expect any more.” 

His footsteps disappeared into silence, and when Nesta was sure he was gone, she let her guard down and once more let her mind suck her into an empty black void of self-deprecating thoughts, both too full and too vacant at the same time. 

Nesta missed the whiskey that burned as it fell down her throat. She did not turn on the lamps. Soon, the darkness of her bedroom became akin to the phantoms in her mind, and she let herself wander once more in the mist, fumbling for shards of a mirror, only to step on them and bleed. 

༺༻

Nesta didn’t eat much. It surprised her that Cassian could cook, but she didn’t let her revelation show. He had given her a plate of some Illyrian dish that she didn’t recognize, and a bowl of broth. Nesta would’ve found both delicious, had she not been prior starving herself to the point where anything more than the bare minimum was too much. Thus, she had drunk only half the broth and taken a few bites of the dish before setting down her fork. 

Cassian, to her relief, did not comment on how little she ate, although she did not miss his gaze edged with worry that flickered her way many times throughout. 

Their dinner was in silence, one that wasn’t necessarily  _ uncomfortable _ but also far from comfortable. It was filled with tension, like a rope pulled taut, waiting to be cut. There was no conversation or banter between them, and Nesta was content to keep it that way.

Cassian cleared his throat. Nesta immediately stiffened and she felt her walls go back up; walls of stone around her heart and tall bushes of prickly roses around her mind. 

“May I ask a question?” he asked. 

Nesta’s previous relief was short-lived at his words, and she felt annoyance wash over her. She knew Cassian well enough to know he would only say that if his question was about a heavier subject, sensitive, or in any other way displeased Nesta. 

“Only if I can ask one in return,” she answered at last. A thought for a thought, a truth for a truth. 

Cassian raised an eyebrow, a small grin flashing across his face, likely surprised and pleased that she was actually engaging in any sort of conversation, but he made no taunt. 

“Okay. I’ll ask first,” he said, expression settling back into one of seriousness. Cassian swallowed, a short sigh escaping him. “Nesta. I want to ask you this for your own good. I know that this is private to you, but-” 

“Get on with it,” Nesta snapped. “I have no need for your monologue.” 

Cassian nodded. “Alright, then. Do you have any triggers? If so, what are they? I just want to make sure that I don’t accidentally trigger you, or make you uncomfortable…”

His voice trailed off in uncertainty, another thing the bastard rarely did. 

Nesta hated the inquiry, half wanting to rip his head off for even having the  _ audacity _ to ask such a personal question. 

She didn’t want to answer it in the slightest. She did not want to offer that part of herself, a vulnerability, a weakness, a doorway through her stone walls. She knew Cassian had good intentions, but this was her gods-damned  _ privacy _ . Cassian was  _ nothing _ in her sad excuse of a life, and he was not entitled to know  _ anything _ about her. 

On the other hand, Nesta herself had a burning question for Cassian, something that she had pondered over for a while, and now was the perfect time she could ask it. If she gave him an answer, he had to give one back. 

Nesta took a deep breath. “Fire, and water, especially baths,” she said, her tone a shade wobblier than she would have liked. “I cannot stand the crackling sound of fire, or anything where I am submerged, either partially or fully.”

She had left one out, but he didn’t know that. He didn’t need to. 

Cassian took a few seconds to process this, dipping his head once. “Okay. I’ll be sure to keep that in mind, and I can get extra blankets-”

“You don’t need to,” she cut him off sharply. 

Cassian didn’t respond to that, knowing better than to push further. A heavy and unpleasant pause hovered between them for a moment before she continued.

“My turn. What is going on between you, Azriel, and Morrigan?”

Nesta was blunt and straightforward as always. She did not bother sounding pleasant. 

Cassian visibly flinched, shadows crawling over his eyes. “Nesta, I’m not sure that’s something I should say.” 

“Not sure?” Nesta countered. “Or do you just not want to? You promised a question for a question, or can you not hold yourself accountable for this promise either?”

Cassian’s jaw tightened and his hazel eyes hardened, clearly knowing exactly what Nesta had referenced. He crossed his arms, wings flaring for a second before settling, a telltale sign of his uneasiness. 

“Fine. I’m going to make this as brief as possible,” he said. “Kier wanted Mor to marry Eris Vanserra so that he could forge an alliance between the two courts. Mor didn’t want to marry Eris and asked me to take her virginity so that Eris would no longer want her. Azriel loves Mor and Mor has not openly shown any feelings towards Azriel, nor has she rejected him. I’m not going to say any more than that. This whole thing involves them both and it is not my place to spill secrets they might not want me to share.” 

Nesta’s livid eyes narrowed, and Cassian could’ve sworn a flame ignited in them, swirling as it arose from the ashes. “So what you’re saying is that the three of you, as centuries old Fae, have not been able to resolve an incident that happened  _ five hundred years ago _ ?”

Cassian let out a sigh. “No-”

“No? You and Morrigan are not in a romantic relationship, have no interest in each other, and yet you give her lingerie?” 

Cassian stiffened at that, nostrils flaring. “What? Nesta, how and why does this tie into Solstice?” 

Nesta didn’t bother answering, only pressing on, temper rising, the fire in her gaze burning brighter. “And you’re also okay with Morrigan using you?” 

Cassian got up from his chair, clearly agitated. “Nesta,” he snapped. “Mor did not  _ use _ me. Don’t insult her like that. I-”

“Did not?” Nesta shot back, scoffing. “Do you even hear yourself? Morrigan could have fucked anybody yet she chose  _ you _ because of your background and upbringing. And now she  _ uses _ you as a barrier between her and Azriel. Can you not see the toxicity? This is  _ ridiculously _ unbelievable.” Her eyes blazed with a raging, devastating intensity. 

“I told you this already, Nesta,” he said, his voice low and firm. Nesta reminded him of a snake, striking swift, and right where it hurt. “Don’t insult Mor like that, she is a close friend of mine, and-”

Nesta rolled her eyes at that. 

“-and look, I don’t want to argue, not over this.”

“You’re the one who started this damn argument.”

“Nesta, now that you said something in opposition again, you’re also still arguing with me.”

Both glared at each other fiercely, like fire on fire. Neither relented until Cassian finally tore his eyes away, fingers pressed against the bridge of his nose. 

Just as Cassian sank back onto his chair with a defeated huff, Nesta stood up, ever the epitome of elegance. 

“I’m done.”

Cassian opened his mouth. 

“Don’t talk to me.”

With that, Nesta turned around and left the table, steps measured, chin neither raised nor lowered. The silver flames in her eyes extinguished and replaced itself with ghosts. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First chapter of Roses & Mirrors is finally up! I’ll be trying to write a chapter and upload it every other weekend (so bi-weekly updates), however, depending on the time I have, it may take longer for me to update. 
> 
> I don’t particularly like editing stories, so this is very minimally edited. If you find any mistakes, typos, or inconsistencies, don’t hesitate to point them out! 
> 
> This first chapter was kind of boring, I had to set everything up so nothing that exciting has happened yet. Just so y’all know, there won’t really be much action (like battling and such) in this fanfiction, it’s more focused on Nesta and Cassian’s relationship. Because I only have 7 chapters planned, this will probably be a faster-paced book in regards to how their relationship progresses. 
> 
> I think Nesta’s emotions in this chapter are sort of all over the place, which is what I intended, although it comes off as messy. To me, Nesta isn’t a character that is always stuck in deep depression, I believe that occasionally she will be happier than other times. I also believe that alcohol helps numb her emotions and since she is forced to be sober, it also contributes to why she’s all over the place. 
> 
> As for why I have only seven chapters planned, it’s because I took seven lyrics out of the song Love Story by Indila. I think the song itself talks about a relationship different from Nessian, but I took the lyrics since I think it fits them. I then used the lyrics i took to plan out this fanfiction. The lyrics in this chapter are, “he sees her everywhere - standing, he is waiting for her.” (I am not French, please tell me if this translation is inaccurate!)
> 
> Wow this is a long author’s note. Thank you all for reading, comments are muchly appreciated! This is also posted on Tumblr under @silent-scythe
> 
> \- Scythe


	2. Chapter II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: mild cursing, minor allusions to alcohol abuse and suicide

_“Une rose à la main_

_À part elle il n'attend rien”_

༺༻

The long, haunted days slowly fell into a pattern- the same monotonous cycle over and over again. Nesta would wake up just as Cassian left the house, the golden sun barely peeking over the tops of the mountains, a fresh coat of morning frost adorning the ground. She would stay in her chambers almost every day, either reading or staring into space, never leaving except to occasionally get a new novel or maybe a glass of water if she was having a good day and actually paid attention to her health. Somedays those demons in her mind became worse and she would sit against the wall of her room, breath heaving, as painful fragments of memories resurfaced. 

She never told Cassian about those days. Not that they ever talked.

Then as the sun set, Cassian would arrive home, announcing his return with a greeting that Nesta never responded to. Later, he’d knock on the door and leave a plate of food in front of her room. Cassian would walk away right after, and Nesta would make sure he left before opening the door. Both came to this silent agreement to never interact. 

The sun turned a crimson red, tainting the horizon with blood. Nesta got off of the bed, letting loose a breath. _Cassian will be back soon,_ she thought. As she got up, her gaze snagged on herself in the mirror that was tucked into the corner of the bedchambers, obscured by shadows. 

Nesta never dared look at herself in it, but this time she couldn’t resist meeting her own eyes in the mirror. She walked closer, each step slow and vaguely hesitant. 

Her golden-brown hair was unbound, flowing to just below her shoulders in soft waves. She never had the energy to put it up into a bun- it wasn’t as if she needed to, anyways. Nobody would see her. 

Either way, she still made sure her hair covered the tips of her ears; it was the only way she could appear human, even if her mind repeatedly told her that she was permanently Fae. 

Nesta skipped lunch entirely, and would only eat breakfast if she woke up feeling not particularly dreadful. She did eat dinner, although always in her room. She and Cassian hadn’t crossed paths since that initial dinner. She did not fail to notice how the amount of food that Cassian sent grew daily. At first, when he gave her regularly-sized portions, she would never finish her dinner. Cassian seemed to realize this, and left smaller meals at her door. She was surprised by how attentive Cassian was, for when she started to finish her dinner consistently, he would leave just marginally more. 

Nesta was not delusional. Broken, maybe, but not delusional. She knew that she was far away from being healthy, with her face that was still gaunt and her long limbs that were too skinny. Sometimes, she still craved the burning taste of whiskey crawling down her throat and the feel of a male underneath her, but she tried to push these yearnings down, knowing that longing for it would not change her situation whatsoever. 

Sometimes, Nesta wished they interacted more. Somedays, she promised herself to say something to Cassian, even just a _thank you_ , or maybe go as far as to go out into the kitchen.

But whenever he came home, she’d no longer have the nerve to move. Whenever he came to leave her dinner outside her room, the words died on her tongue, her gratitude shriveling up. 

Today was no different from their daily pattern- or so she thought. 

Their routine was disrupted when she heard voices come from the doorway of the cabin. Curiosity stirred in her, and against her better judgement, she let that curiosity grow until she tore her gaze away from the mirror and tiptoed to the door, putting her ear against the heavy oak wood. 

It was futile. She couldn’t hear any more clearly; in fact, all she heard were low murmurs, the words themselves wholly indistinguishable. 

All Nesta could discern was the deep rumble of Cassian’s voice and another that was higher pitched but no less husky. The person sounded distinctly female, but she wasn’t sure. Nesta frowned in in thought, pressing closer to the door, even as her mind scolded her for being stupid, for of course she wasn’t able to hear any better.

From what she did hear, Cassian laughed at something the other person said. It ignited something inside her, like an ember amongst long forgotten ash. 

She hadn’t heard him laugh in _so long_. 

It was a refreshing and painful sound- on one hand, his laugh made Nesta feel lighter, made her forget the phantoms screaming in her head. On the other, it reminded Nesta too much of the past, when Cassian would smirk at her, when they freely bantered and _actually_ talked instead of hiding away from each other, both content-but-not-really to let one another deal with their own nightmares. 

Her fingers curled into a fist at her side as she resisted the urge to open the door and run out of her room, demanding to know who that was purely just to sate her curiosity, and maybe perhaps hear that laugh again. She _would not_ give into that. Nesta had been so adamant about never interacting; she would not succumb to such a petty urge. With a huff, she turned around and sat down on her bed.

Nesta hated this. She hated everything. Half of her wanted to stay in her chambers, and half of her wanted to get out. But then again, if she left her room, she was sure Cassian would smirk at her victoriously and it would only set her temper aflame again.

At the end, she blamed her emotions on sobriety once more. 

༺༻

Cassian wasn’t a fool. He heard Nesta’s footsteps when he was talking to Emerie. He had gone to visit her shop so that he could stock up again on winter supplies, buying more than he needed so that he could give it to the bastards, widows, and other Illyrian outcasts on the outskirts of Windhaven; they were far less prepared for the incoming blizzard. Both Cassian and Emerie knew why he bought so much, but neither brought it up. And if Cassian was being honest, their friendship was what kept him sane in this camp. 

Emerie had taken one look at Cassian struggling to hold everything and insisted she’d help him carry. They stayed silent as he distributed most of it to the outcast Illyrians. With the widows and orphans, he was usually able to straight up hand things over, but giving winter clothes and supplies to the bastard-born Illyrians was harder. They were stubborn and refused help- especially by a bastard, which was equally hypocritical as it was despairing- despite being nearly frozen by the cold. At the end Cassian and Emerie had to resort to leaving small bundles in random spots on the side of paths and waiting for them to snatch it when they “weren’t looking,” as well as giving extra to the widows, requesting them to hand it to the young males instead. 

Afterwards, they fell into easy conversation and before he realized it, they were at his house. He was sure Emerie could smell Nesta’s scent in the cabin, but she didn’t comment on it. _Thank the Mother she didn’t bring it up,_ he recalled. _I wouldn’t know how to answer a single thing regarding Nesta._

Once she left, he sat down onto the living room couch with a great sigh of exhaustion, unstrapping the multiple Illyrian blades on him. He tapped the scarlet siphons on the back of his hands, the scaled leather armor disappearing from his skin, replacing itself with a loose white shirt and comfortable black pants. 

In hindsight, he didn’t regret talking to Emerie at his doorstep. It was a good change to his daily dispirited routine. He had thought that Nesta would be curious, and his suspicions were proved correct when he heard her walking to the door of her bedroom. 

Cassian truly did want Nesta to get out of there. Not that he necessarily wanted to see her- well, he certainly did- but more importantly, he wanted her to at least interact with someone, for it was most definitely not healthy to stay cooped up in there for weeks straight. 

A few days ago, Azriel had flown into Windhaven, landing right when Cassian had finished a negotiation of sorts with Devlon. 

They had talked for a while before the topic drifted to Nesta, and Azriel asked how she was doing. Cassian knew without question that Feyre was the one who asked Azriel to inquire Cassian about Nesta’s condition. He merely snorted, telling Azriel to ask Feyre to come by herself and check. He admitted that there was probably more bite in his words than he intended, and he felt a twinge of guilt at how on edge he was when talking to Azriel.

He was just about to get up and start making dinner when faint footsteps echoed on the floor, coming closer and closer. 

Cassian lifted his gaze, meeting the livid-smoke eyes of the female who stood right in the doorway to the living room. 

“Why hello, Nesta.” 

༺༻

How she had finally worked up the nerve to leave her room, Nesta wasn’t sure of. But her mind had urged her to leave, to go, to find the male and have _some_ sort of interaction or else she would decay in that room of hers. And she didn’t want to die, at least not today. 

Nesta didn’t pay any attention to her nightgown or her unbound hair. Every step farther from the place she called her sanctuary and prison had her resolve slipping further, but she firmly carried on until the warm glow from the faelight lamps in the living room spilled onto her.

There, one hand on the doorframe, nails nearly digging into the wood, she paused, looking at the male in front of her. 

He was seated on the couch, looking perfectly at ease. And when he met her gaze, when he opened his mouth and _said her name_ , a tidal wave seemed to wash over her, making her jolt. Despite the shock, she forced herself to not appear too bothered, jaw clenching with effort. 

Cassian looked for the most part like he normally did, with an easy smile and posture relaxed beyond comprehension, wings spread behind him, resting on the couch. She also did notice the dark smudges under his eyes and the way surprise had flashed across his face when he beheld her standing where she was. 

Nesta ignored his words.

“Who-” her voice cracked from disuse. “Who was that?” she demanded instead of answering his greeting. 

Cassian stood up, taking a careful step closer to her. His hazel eyes had their usual twinkle, but they had a wary glint to them as well. “That was my friend, Emerie,” he answered simply. 

Nesta didn’t nod or acknowledge his answer at all, besides swallowing and lowering her gaze, somehow still managing to look down her nose. 

Cassian took another step towards her, as if he was unconsciously drawn to her. Maybe he was. “I was speaking in Illyrian, if you’re wondering why you couldn’t understand anything when you were eavesdropping.” 

“I wasn’t,” she immediately said in defense. 

A light smirk graceed Cassian’s face at her response, and Nesta felt irritation arise. Irritation not only at his dreadfully annoying smirk, but also at the fact that he said that entirely just to get a rise out of her and _succeeded_. 

“Nesta,” he started. 

Nesta lifted her head, eyebrows arched. “Yes?” she inquired. 

Cassian rubbed the back of his neck with one hand, the other in his pocket, leaning a shade forward. “Look,” he said, expression turning serious. “I’m really glad that you came out of your room. I don’t want to force you into anything, but- do you want to cook with me? Or just, do something? And it doesn’t have to be with me. I just think some company will do you good.” 

Nesta snorted. Cassian never gave such a thorough and polite invitation to do anything. “I’ll keep that in mind,” she replied, heading towards the kitchen. “What, are you going to make me wait for you while you stand there like an idiot?” 

Cassian visibly lit up, and Nesta had to physically restrain herself from rolling her eyes. “You’re actually going to make dinner with me?” 

Nesta couldn’t stop the eyeroll this time. “No you bastard, I’m just going to the kitchen for nothing.” _Dumbass,_ she thought inwardly, feeling shockingly more lighthearted than she had in days. 

It had been so long since they were able to bicker like this. Nesta would be lying if she said she didn’t miss it. 

Cassian followed her to the kitchen, turning on an overhead faelight that shone above the island counter with a snap of his fingers.

Nesta stood by the counter, one hand gently tapping the surface. “So what do I do?”

Cassian just chuckled, a sound that lit her insides on fire _again_. “Impatient, aren’t you? Here. Can you go heat up the leftover stock from yesterday? I’ll cut up some vegetables.” 

Nesta was more than relieved to hear that she didn’t need to touch a knife; seeing one was fine, but she was sure that she’d have a panic attack if she touched one again. Nesta concluded that Cassian had undoubtedly known this, which was why he took on the task of cutting. Her momentary gratitude was soon washed over by a sense of ever-present displeasure at his borderline-admirable attention to detail. 

Nesta shook her head, scattering her thoughts. She walked towards the wood stove, fully aware that she had to start a fire, and not wanting to do so in the slightest. She remembered using a similar stove back in the human lands with Feyre and Elain, which was why she knew how to use one, but she didn’t want to touch the damn thing. Considering Cassian’s strange Illyrian powers, Nesta wondered why he didn’t just magically warm up the stock instead of lighting a physical fire. 

And besides, fire still reminded her too much of the past, of-

Cassian must’ve seen her frozen in place, for he cleared his throat. “Nesta,” he said softly. “I haven’t forgotten what you said a few weeks ago. I know the sound triggers you, so I silenced the fire. If it still bothers you, though-” 

“I’m fine,” Nesta replied, more of a boost of confidence for herself than anything. “It’s fine.” 

She started the fire warily, tense and on guard as if the crackling noises would start at any time. But true to Cassian’s word, when the embers caught on fire, there was no sound. She wanted to ask if he could do the same to the fireplace in her bedroom, but she bit her tongue and refrained from asking, lest she appear vulnerable. 

She took the ladle in her left hand and stirred the liquid inside the pot. Nesta could hear the rhythmic chopping coming from behind her, and unconsciously, her stirring matching his cutting. 

Soon, a savory scent arose from the pot, wafting through the kitchen. They stood in silence that was still far from comfortable but less tense than before. The relaxing motions and delicious smell paired with Nesta’s decently-good mood today resulted in a relatively civil evening. 

It was Nesta that broke the silence first. “What are you making?” she asked. 

“ _We-_ use the right pronoun- are making dinner,” he deadpanned, before a grin danced across his face. “I’m using the stock for two things. Mainly, I want to make a stew out of it, but I also want to use a part of it to season something.”

“You’re going to _season_ a dish with a liquid?” 

“Semantics. But you seem to know how to cook, hm? By all means sweetheart, go ahead.” 

Despite facing away from each other, Nesta still wanted to turn around and smack his goddamn face, for both the retort and the term of endearment. 

“Move out of the way for a second, let me dump this into the stock,” he called. 

Nesta did as he said, taking a few steps backward to watch. Cassian turned around from the kitchen island, reaching upwards to take a bowl out of the cupboards. He held it in one hand and the ladle in another, taking out two scoops of the broth. He set the bowl to the side of the stove on a different counter. Returning to the island, he used the knife and a hand to carry vegetables over to the pot and dump them in. He did this a few times, and Nesta could see that he had put carrots, onions, tomatoes, potatoes, some other things, and also a handful of beans. Afterwards, he tugged on a drawer of spices, taking out a few glass jars and putting in small spoonfuls of different spices, which only further contributed to the delightful smell.

Nesta watched rather intensely, surprised at how swift he could move in such a small space. His height, his giant wings, and his broad frame thoroughly suggested a warrior made for the skies, not a cook. His fingers moved deftly, and despite only being able to see a fraction of his face from this angle, Nesta knew without a doubt that his brows were scrunched in concentration. 

“I know you’re watching me,” Cassian teased, voice almost akin to Rhys’s in terms of smugness, albeit deeper. “What’s so captivating?” 

Nesta glared daggers into his back. “Captivating is just about the last word I’d associate with you,” she snapped, tone icy. 

Cassian hummed, unbothered. “Your eyes betray you.” 

Nesta was about to ask what the hell that meant when he interrupted.

“You know how to sear meat, right?” 

Nesta never wanted to knee him between the legs again so badly. “I’m not stupid,” she spat. 

“Could have fooled me,” Cassian replied, snickering. “Can you sear the meat that I cut up this morning? It’s in a bowl, also on the island counter.”

“I’m not blind either,” Nesta shot back. 

Cassian didn’t bother responding, only continuing to hum and stir the stock, which was thickening from something he put in that Nesta didn’t catch. 

She walked over to the other side of the counter, taking the bowl of meat and removing the cover that had rested on top. 

Nesta may have despised that bastard, but he sure could cook- she had to give him that. 

The meat was lightly seasoned, and Nesta decided that it was probably beef, but she wasn’t completely sure, given that Cassian sometimes liked to cook with venison or lamb. She hated the latter. 

Taking it over to the wood stove, she took a pan from a cabinet to her right. With an inward snarl, she realized that she’d _actually_ have to stand close to him to sear the beef. 

Cassian, sensing her hesitation, took the opportunity to further tease her. “Nesta sweetheart, I don’t bite.” 

Nesta bristled at that, glaring up at him. “Move aside, you hulking brute,” she muttered. 

He did so without complaint, scuffling over to the left just slightly. 

Nesta put the pan on top of the stove and poured oil onto it. She cursed under her breath as her hand wobbled- she poured too much. 

“You don’t need that much oil,” Cassian said. 

“I know,” came the immediate response. 

Nesta waited until it was sizzling before she placed the small chunks of beef onto the pan. With yet another obscenity, she realized that she should’ve done two batches, for she just put too much meat onto it. 

“And that’s too much-”

Nesta turned towards him, seething. “Oh would you just shut your goddamn mouth for one minute?” she shouted, frustration and anger bubbling within her. She threw the nearest wooden spatula at his face. To her utmost indignation, he caught it just before it hit his face. 

“Must you resort to violence straight away?” he countered. “Besides, you’re going to need this spatula to turn the meat over before it burns.” 

Nesta, so focused on hurtling the spatula at him, had not noticed the meat nearly finished cooking. She snatched it from his hands, trying to turn the beef over. 

The thing wouldn’t flip. 

She tried again and again, picking up the pan with one hand and shoving the meat to the edge, but it wouldn’t flip over. Nesta felt more than saw Cassian’s attention rest on her. 

“I don’t need help,” she said immediately, at the same time as he said, “let me help you.” 

They broke off into an awkward silence for a split second before he came behind her, his left hand moving to rest on hers. 

Before it could touch, Nesta used her right hand to slap him away. “Bastard,” she hissed. 

Cassian chuckled, the sound rich and low from the closeness of him, his chest mere inches away from her back. For all his incessant teasing, he still would never violate her space. 

“Please,” Cassian requested. “Let me help.”

Nesta found that she couldn’t deny him, her heart beating quite wildly in her chest, as if it would leap through her throat at any second. “Fine.” 

Cassian’s hand met hers, resting gently. The contact sent a shiver down her spine, his calluses rubbing on her smooth, cool skin. It made whatever dark power within her become alive, and that shimmering connection between them awoke from its deep slumber. She pushed the feeling down, focusing on the task at hand. 

“Here,” he murmured, hand gripping hers. With expert precision, he guided her hand as they flipped the meat in tandem, which sizzled as it met the oil and the scorching surface of the pan. 

Nesta could not focus on anything besides the feel of his touch, the way his grip felt so firm and sure and confident, yet tender and almost _vulnerable_ at the same time. She found it hard to breathe, but not in a terrible way. Butterflies arose in her stomach- what a different sensation than her numb days prior to this. 

Cassian let go of her hand, and it shook her out of her thoughts, the abrupt action akin to someone plunging her in ice. 

“Keep the meat there for a minute more,” Cassian said. “Then put it onto a plate and sear the rest.”

༺༻

A half hour later of bickering, arguing, and cooking, dinner was ready. Nesta would never admit it, but a moderate amount of pride coursed through her at actually doing something for once. Halfway through, Nesta had asked him what the dish was. Cassian had replied in Illyrian, and witnessing him speak Illyrian had sent a strange thrill through her veins. 

Now, as she sat in the dining room- which was surprisingly cozy, for every time she thought of a dining room, a grand space like the House of Wind popped up in her mind- she couldn’t help but feel accomplished. It was so different from her usual dull feelings, but then again, this entire day was strange to say the least. They had gone from not interacting whatsoever to making a meal together, but Nesta predicted that they would most likely mutually agree to entirely forget this ever happened. 

Cassian appeared from the kitchen holding two steaming plates, putting one in front of Nesta and one in front of himself. 

In a large ceramic bowl was a generous portion of the thick beef stew that they had made, and on the plate was a mixture of rice, vegetables, and meat. True to his word, Cassian had used spoonfuls of broth to “season” the rice. 

At the first bite, Nesta nearly moaned- it truly was heavenly, and perhaps the one good thing about coming to Illyria. 

Cassian had a satisfied smile on his face and that sparkle in his hazel eyes was even more prominent. Under the warm light, Nesta swore she could see the individual greens and browns of his eyes, entwined together and interspersed with gold flecks. “I knew you’d like it.”

  
  


༺༻

Neither commented on it, but that night Nesta ate a normal, regular portion. 

She finished all of it. 

The ghosts who danced and sneered in Nesta’s mind were silent that night, no more than cobwebs on an abandoned corner. More importantly, she could’ve sworn that she retrieved a piece of her broken mirror.

Perhaps everything wasn’t lost after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi y’all! Hope y’all enjoy the somewhat-wholesome Nessian cooking :)
> 
> The lyrics in this chapter are, “a rose in his hand - apart from her, he expects/awaits nothing.” (I am not French, please tell me if this translation is inaccurate!)
> 
> I’m very sorry for uploading this over a week late, I could not find the time and motivation to edit it, but I finally finished last night. Like all my works, this is very minimally edited so there are undoubtedly mistakes, typos, or inconsistencies- please point them out to me if you see them!
> 
> As I said in the a/n of the first chapter: I think Nesta’s emotions are sort of all over the place, which is what I intend to portray. To me, Nesta isn’t a character that is always stuck in deep depression, I believe that occasionally she will be happier than other times. I also believe that alcohol helps numb her emotions and since she is forced to be sober, it also contributes to why she’s all over the place.
> 
> With that being said, I really want to explore the dynamic of Nesta and Cassian being on really good terms on one day and arguing the next, making progress and then losing it. I also want to explore Nesta + Emerie friendship, so Emerie will appear quite a bit in this fic.
> 
> Thank you all for reading, y'alls comments make my day! This is also posted on Tumblr under @silent-scythe.
> 
> \- Scythe


End file.
